


This Means War

by thepinupchemist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Attempt at Humor, Barely Legal, Bottom Dean, Canonical Character Death, Halloween, Horror, Human Castiel, Humor, M/M, Teenage Castiel, Teenage Sam, Top Castiel, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 03:07:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepinupchemist/pseuds/thepinupchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It should have been a normal day. </p><p>Instead, Castiel finds out zombies are real, discovers some things he never knew about his best friend Sam and Sam's way-too-good-looking brother Dean, almost dies, wields a chainsaw, and loses his virginity. Kind of in that order.</p><p>Zombie apocalypse!AU oneshot for Halloween.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Means War

**Soundtrack: Zombies Ate My Neighbors – Single File**

**_This Means War_ **

It should have been a normal October day in Lawrence, Kansas.

It was chilly that morning, enough that when Castiel stalked out to his clunker of a car before seven that morning that it was covered in frost that he had to scrape off before he could drive to the Winchesters to pick Sam up for school that day. Halloween was just around the corner – as evidenced by the houses decked in orange pumpkins, the little plastic ghosts hanging from trees, the novelty headstones with names on them like “I.B. Gone” and “Ura Ghost.” The Winchesters’ home wasn’t decorated but for a single row of four squat pumpkins along the porch, only one of which had a face carved into it.

When Castiel pulled up to the curb, Sam was out of the house with his backpack on his shoulders before he could even turn the car off.

“Hey,” he’d said, when he wrenched open the passenger’s side door and plopped onto the seat, “Thanks again, dude. For the rides.”

It used to be that Sam got rides to school from his older brother, whom Castiel had only even seen in passing, mostly when Dean was poised to leave for one of his jobs. Then his shifts at Singer Salvage got bumped up in the mornings, and he had to take their only car to get there. Sam had an entire speech prepared for Castiel on paying for gas and swearing that he’d make it up to him. Castiel waved it off and told him not to worry about it.

And so they’d be doing this since mid-September. The car rides with Sam were always pleasant, filled with music trades and animated discussion. Sam liked to talk about the girl named Ruby in their AP Chemistry class, after which he always asked if Castiel had met any boys yet.

He hadn’t.

The school day progressed like any other, in a flurry of homework assignments and near-incidents of falling asleep in AP World History. Lunch was bland and highly suspect as always, and at the end of the day, Castiel dropped Sam off at the front of his house. He waved goodbye, and disappeared inside his houses.

But it wasn’t a normal day.

**X**

When Castiel arrives back home, Gabriel is gone again – he sometimes shows up on the doorstep of their house when he pisses Kali off, which he does far too often (especially now that she’s six months into pregnancy). He sleeps in his childhood bedroom and tends to linger the following day, eating food out of their pantry and mooching off of their Amazon Instant Video.

Sure enough, when Castiel drops his backpack on the floor by the front door and ducks into the walk-in pantry, he finds one of the bags of Halloween candy on the top shelf open and gaping, with more than half of the Reese’s pumpkins inside missing.

“For fuck’s sake, Gabriel,” he mutters, but takes a chocolate and peanut butter pumpkin of his own, since he’ll have a convenient excuse to give to his mother about why the candy is missing.

He kicks off his tennis shoes and arranges them neatly on the shoe rack by the front door, gripping his backpack tight and hanging it on the hooks mounted above, before he settles in on the couch for pre-homework television. There’s typically a Dr. Sexy marathon on at this time of day – Castiel has seen every episode, and will continue to watch no matter how much Sam makes fun of him for it. He says his brother watches it even more religiously than Castiel, though, which personally he finds difficult to believe. Dean Winchester has always seemed too macho for something like that.

Dean is always dressed in classic rock t-shirts and has tattoos down both of his arms. He likes to lift weights and go running when he isn’t fixing up old cars at Singer Salvage or bartending at The Roadhouse. He has a classic car that he inherited when his and Sam’s father died, and he has a collection of Vonnegut books on the shelf in his bedroom. That’s all the information that Castiel really has about the man, and none of it exactly screams “this guy loves watching Dr. Sexy.”

Castiel is only halfway into an episode and a pepperoni  Hot Pocket, long legs sprawled out in front of him on the coffee table (which his mother would _kill_ him for, but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her) when it all goes to hell. An urgent knock sounds at his front door, and when he doesn’t answer right away, it sounds again, louder.

“Castiel! It’s Sam. Open up, dude,” he heard from the other side.

He pads to the door and answers it with his Hot Pocket still in hand.

Aforementioned Hot Pocket drops to the tiled entry way when he sees not only Sam, but Dean, both covered in dirt and bruises, with gleaming, black weapons in their hands and strapped to their backs.

“What the flying fuck is this?” is the first thing out of Castiel’s mouth.

“How have you not seen?” Sam exclaims with a flourish of hands, and he and his brother push inside. They close the door and lock it with both the knob and the bolt.

“Am I about to be murdered?” Castiel asks, only half-sarcastic.

“No, you idiot,” Sam says. He strides into the living room with his sneakers still on his feet.

“Sam, the carpet! My mom’s gonna kill –”

Sam isn’t listening, and he’s leaving dirty footprints on the plush, white carpet. This is non-typical Sam behavior, and so it’s all he can do to follow him into the living room. Dr. Sexy still plays on the television.

From behind him, Dean’s rumbling voice says, “Hey, this is the episode where Doc Piccolo thinks she’s knocked up.”

Castiel turns around and stares for a second. Dean affords him a crooked grin and a wink, which makes him flush and turn away, staring pointedly back to where Sam stands in front of the TV with the remote in his hand, flipping through channels. He settles on the news and brandishes the remote at the screen, “See! Holy hell, Cas, I was so worried you were already dead.”

Castiel wants to question that but the sight on the TV screen shuts him up. It’s the KU campus, or it was – the library is aflame and smoke fills the air. He opens his mouth to ask if there’s been a terrorist attack or another goddamn school shooting, but before he can the news camera quakes and falls onto the sidewalk. Sideways, they watch people run and scream, students leaving backpacks on the concrete and trails of paper streaming behind them.

That’s when he sees the first one. It is – or was – a chubby brown-haired boy in a blue KU zip-up. One of his eyes dangles from its socket, bleeding, and sores split his face. Underneath the mess of ruined skin he’s pale.

From his mouth dangles a manicured hand.

“Sam, this isn’t funny,” Castiel says.

“No, it’s not,” Dean replies from behind him, “It’s fucking zombies, is what it is.”

“It’s probably just a Halloween prank,” Castiel insists.

He looks over to Sam for backup on this, but Sam shakes his head. He says, “It’s not. They’re in our neighborhood already. One of them almost bit me, dude. Dean sliced the fucker from behind.”

“Yeah, and it won’t be long ‘til they’re here, too,” Dean says, and slides his eyes to the front window, “We ganked some crazy bitch a block back, and if there’s one of ‘em, I’d bet my left nut there are more on their way. But Sammy wanted to make sure you were okay. And we still gotta get to Ellen and Jo, so hurry your shit up.”

“Um,” Castiel manages. He wants to tell Dean and Sam that they’re insane and that _zombies_ are biologically impossible, but this is the Winchesters that are facing him. This isn’t the school’s football team or Meg from gym class. These aren’t people that would prank him because they think it would be a good laugh to watch somebody in a panic. These are honest, good people. Castiel’s never known another person as good-natured as Sam, and if Sam trusts his older brother, then he does too.

So he says, “Should I put on my shoes?”

“For starters,” Dean laughs, a desperate sound, “You got any weapons around here?”

“Not guns,” he says. His mom is very adamantly anti-gun, pretty vehemently since his suicide attempt when he was thirteen – over four years ago, now. As he stuffs his feet back into his tennis shoes he quickly catalogues what they might have in the kitchen or the garage, “A chainsaw,” he comes up with, “We have that chainsaw from when mom tried to remove the tree from the front.”

“Got fuel for it?” asks Dean.

“Yeah,” Castiel replies. His practical mother always insists upon having a gas can handy.

And then it _really_ all goes to hell.

The sound of glass shattering breaks through the house.

“Aw, shit,” Dean says. He runs a hand through his hand and then with his eyes serious he says, “You two. Chainsaw. Gas can. I’ll take care of this son of a bitch.”

Before Castiel can protest, Sam grabs him by the wrist and drags him toward the garage. He’s never been more grateful to have an organized and neatly swept garage. He crosses the space where his mom’s BMW usually sits and makes for the set of metal shelves stacked against the far left wall. The chainsaw hasn’t been used in years, but it’s been maintained nonetheless. When Castiel picks it up and revs it up, it roars to life under his hands. He swings it out in front of him, testing the weight.

“Whoa, careful with that thing,” Sam says, and ducks back, “Jesus.”

The faint pops of a gun being fired cry out from the other side of the door.

“Come on,” Sam urges, “We’ve gotta move fast. I don’t want to leave Dean on his own out there. He’s an idiot.”

Gas can and chainsaw in hand, they rush back into the house. There they find not one, but two of the hideous people with open sores. Both of these ones have their eyes intact, but one of them is missing their arm at the shoulder joint, blood soaking her white t-shirt. Dean is trapped, backed against the wall.

Sam aims and shoots.

White t-shirt zombie’s head explodes.

“Great shot, Sammy,” Dean says. He surges from his place against the wall and kicks his leg out, surprisingly flexible for wearing a confining pair of jeans. The zombie launches at him but Dean clocks it with the butt of his semi-automatic. The thing is thrown off balance just long enough for Dean to put a bullet through its skull.

“Jesus Christ,” Cas manages, “Where did you guys learn to do that?”

“What, shoot?” Dean says. Castiel nods.

“Our dad used to take us hunting on the weekends and stuff,” Sam says, “Left a lot of guns behind. Dean and I sometimes go to the shooting range when he has time off. Plus, paintball. You’ve never beaten me.”

That’s true, although on one particular occasion during the last summer, Castiel did manage to get a lucky crotch shot in.

“All right, ladies, enough chit chat,” Dean says, “We got supplies in my baby and we need to get this show on the road. Sam, can Cas drive?”

“Of course I can,” Castiel says, offended, “I drive your brother to school every day.”

“He means that he wants to know if you can drive _well_ ,” Sam clarifies, “His hands need to be free to shoot. And yeah, Dean, I trust Cas with my life.”

Dean eyes Cas, green-eyed gaze intense and studious. After a long, long moment of silence over the smell of rotted blood, Dean reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and slaps keys into Castiel’s palm. He says, “You hurt my baby and I will fucking kill you.”

“She’ll be in good hands,” Castiel promises. Approval flashes through Dean’s eyes.

Sam asks him if there’s anything that he wants to take before they leave, and Castiel can’t think of anything until they pass the framed photos in the front hall. He takes one off of the wall and smashes the glass when Sam and Dean urge him to hurry, stuffing the photo into the pocket of his jeans before running outside. It’s the only picture in the house that still has his dad in it, a picture of chubby-cheeked toddler Castiel snuggled up beside Gabriel and Michael in his father’s lap.

The Impala purrs to life underneath his hands when he starts her. Dean sits beside him in the front and doles out terse directions to the place where they’re supposed to be going – The Roadhouse. It’s only a couple of blocks from campus, and that makes Castiel nervous considering what they watched on the news, but he doesn’t want to seem like a coward in front of Dean and Sam – so he doesn’t say anything.

Fear and adrenaline course through him as they pull away from the suburbs and closer to KU.

Lawrence is a hellhole.

They pass cars crashed into poles and crunched up against each other with smoking hoods. The lack of people sends a thrill down Castiel’s spine. It’s too quiet for their town, especially when this area should be bustling with twenty-somethings enthusiastic about the fall semester.

“Too quiet,” Dean mutters, flexing his fingers on the grip of his semi-automatic. He keeps his gaze on the road and the windows rolled down, guns poised for a fight.

Castiel doesn’t even realize he’s been staring until he hears a panicked, “Cas, watch out!” from Sam.

The Impala hurls into a body.

“Shit,” he says.

“It was one of them,” Sam says, “it’s okay. Jesus. How about you watch the road instead of eye-fucking my brother?”

“I was not eye-fucking your brother,” Castiel snips.

“Sure you weren’t,” Sam grumbles.

“Cool it, you two,” Dean says, “Cas, keep driving. Sam, make sure the fucker’s dead.”

Cas hits the gas, rolling the Impala over the body. As they drive away, Sam leans out the back window and fires a shot. In the rearview mirror, Cas sees a bullet burst the head of the creature, and damn, that’s impressive. It can’t be easy to shoot from a moving vehicle.

When they reach The Roadhouse, Castiel parks right up against the back entrance. Dean instructs both of them to stay behind him. He kicks the back door in and enters the building like a soldier. Immediately, the smell of rot assaults them, spiced with the metallic scent of blood.

On the floor only feet from the door, a body lays sprawled on the floor underneath a huge smear of red-brown blood.

Dean’s mouth twists into a grimace and he steps over the man. Scowl in place and brows pinched together, he leads Sam and Dean around the corner.

“Ellen?” he calls.

No answer.

“Jo?” he tries, voice a little weaker. And then, “Joanna Beth, you better fuckin’ answer me!”

Still, no response.

Then, from behind sounds a growl, and Dean barks, “Cas!”

Cas yanks the chainsaw to life and swings before he even sees the zombie lumbering toward him. The saw connects with the meat of the zombie’s shoulder. There, it sticks, and the pain and spray of blood seems not to affect the thing at all. Deep in its throat it growls again, and then shrieks, reaching forward to grab at him. He struggles to pull the saw back and when he manages to wrench it out of putrid flesh he sails backward, slamming into Sam.

Castiel recovers as fast as he can and swings the chainsaw again. This time, the blade careens right through the zombie’s neck, like a knife through warm butter.

Except, a lot bloodier.

He turns back to the Winchesters and wipes blood from his eyes, spitting the fluid out where it slipped between his cracked lips. He says, “That’s not how it’s transmitted, is it?”

“Don’t think so,” Dean says.

“If the lore is correct, it takes a bite to turn you,” Sam adds.

“The lore?” Castiel echoes.

Neither of the Winchesters bother to elaborate on that.

Dean keeps calling for Jo and Ellen, but they don’t hear anything in return, not even so much as a scuffle of movement. They turn corners and peek through tables and past the bar. Bent and broken corpses litter the restaurant, draped over pool tables and sprawled across the floor, leaking blood into the cracks between the floor boards. For a long while, Dean doesn’t move, just stares at the cemetery that used to be his place of business. He nudges one man with the toe of his work boot and turns him onto his back.

“Goddamnit,” he says, and from the pain that splits his face, Castiel realizes that he must have known this man.

None of them say a word as Dean stalks through the wreckage, over bodies and overturned tables, crunching over sprays of glass. He wrenches open a door. Behind it a set of stairs extends down into darkness.

“Oh no,” Castiel says.

“What?” Dean snaps.

“We can’t fucking go down there,” he says, and reaches for the light switch. Sure enough, when he flicks it up and down, no lights turn on, “This is like every horror movie ever made, you guys. I refuse to die as the dumb white kid in a horror movie.”

Dean looks bemused.

Sam says, “If it were a horror movie, you wouldn’t die, ‘cause you’re a virgin.”

Castiel is too incensed on adrenaline and confusion to be embarrassed by that, so he just brandishes his middle finger, which Sam smacks away with a frown.

“Okay, chuckles,” Dean says, “Here’s the deal. You can either stay up here by yourself, or you can come down in the basement with me n’ Sammy. Either way, I’m goin’ down there and looking for my boss and her daughter, so hurry up and decide.”

“Fine,” Castiel says, stiffly. Because okay, he doesn’t want to go into the dark basement, but more than that he doesn’t want to be left alone. And if this were a horror movie, he should follow rule number one: never split up.

So he follows the Winchesters down the stairs, affording glances behind them as Dean creeps forward. Darkness, sweet and velvety, swallows them whole. The dim light from beyond the door does still to help, only providing enough light to see just in front of them.

At the bottom of the stairs, they hear the low sound of heavy breathing.

Dean’s arm shoots out in front of Sam and he whispers, “Do not. Move. Samuel. Winchester.”

Slowly, Dean extends his reach and flips a switch.

Lights come to life, fluorescence flickering like a strobe for a brief second before white floods the area.

An entire pack of fuckers covered in sores and missing limbs moans at the change, and only barely does this give them an advantage. Dean shouts out at them to run and starts firing into the crowd, but Sam doesn’t listen. He lifts his weapon and fires too. Behind them, Castiel remains helpless with his stupid chainsaw in hand.

Something wails behind him. Swiftly, he revs the chainsaw and throws his body forward.

The head of the zombie flies off, throwing blood everywhere, and rolls down the last of the stairs. The crowd of the monsters below glance down at their feet as the head barrels toward them. Angry hisses and pained moans rise up like organ music, and the creatures throw themselves with anguish toward them all.

Dean makes headway, shooting indiscriminately, while Sam goes for accuracy over speed, nailing body after body in the center of their foreheads. It’s incredible – they’re a team. They know what they’re doing, and they do it so well that it strikes Cas that this is the kind of weapons-handling that one does not learn from weekend hunting trips with dad. The brothers dismount from the stairs and push into the remaining zombies.

That only leaves Cas to help. He wields the saw and cries out, “Assholes!” before he embeds it in neck after neck after neck. Heads flies as fast as his arms. The scents of gasoline, flesh and gunfire twist around them, a deadly concoction that makes Castiel’s empty stomach contract in complaint. He ignores it, keeps moving even though his arms hurt.

But he wouldn’t even be able to do this without weight lifting in gym class. He should apologize to Coach Lafitte for snapping at him that gym class is stupid.

If Coach Lafitte is still alive.

That’s depressing.

He doesn’t realize that the horde is dead and gone until he looks up and sees Sam and Dean staring at him, both with brows cocked in expressions that echo one another and make them look alike. Castiel looks down at himself. He’s drenched in blood and sweat, and he’s holding the trembling chainsaw up the same way a warrior would a sword.

“Damn, dude,” Dean nods, and a smile of approval stretches his lips, “Not bad for a rookie.”

The tension eases out of the air at that, and Dean turns and calls for Ellen and Jo again. There’s no reply. They stalk past the storage room and to the last place that they haven’t checked: the freezer. Dean’s hand hesitates, hovering over the handle of the door, before he pries it open.

When it swings back, Dean murmurs a broken, “ _Damn it_.” His voice cracks and when he turns to look at Sam and Castiel his eyes are wet. If those are tears, they do not spill over. Dean just blinks them back.

Sprawled on the floor of the freezer are two women, one middle-aged brunette, and a younger blond curled around her. Clear as day on the right arm of the blond is a bloody bite wound. In her forehead, a bullet hole. Another bullet wound winds through the side of the head of the middle-aged woman, and a pistol lays in her lap, fingers still curled around the grip.

“Fuck,” Dean just says, and then again, “Fuck.”

“Dean,” Sam says.

“Don’t,” Dean bites out, “Just…don’t, Sammy.” His shoulders shake, and with a shout he slams his fist against the metal freezer door.

That must hurt like hell, but Dean doesn’t indicate that he’s in any kind of pain as he mutters, “Let’s go.”

Just as they step back outside and toward the Impala, the smooth sound of classic rock comes from Dean’s pocket. He shoves his bloodied knuckles past the denim and retrieves his phone. A look of surprised relief flashes before he answers, “Charlie, you okay? Where are you?”

A pause, and then, “Okay, so you think it’s safe?”

Dean meets Castiel’s eyes and says, “Yeah, it’s just me n’ Sam, and our buddy Cas. No…they didn’t make it. Don’t, Charlie. We’ll meet you there.”

“Charlie’s okay?” Sam breathes.

Dean nods, “She and Kevin survived the outbreak at their lab. They say it’s safe to meet them there. I think that’s our best bet. C’mon, Cas. We need you to keep driving.”

With adrenaline waning, exhaustion sets into Castiel’s body, but he still nods. Survival overrides fear as he turns the key in the ignition, slides his eyes over to Dean one final time, and starts up the Impala.

**X**

Protronic Laboratories sits nestled a few dozen miles out of town, out of the way of too many houses and business establishments, beyond copses of gnarled and leafless trees and up a steep hill of dry grass. Huge, concrete walls surround the building on all sides, barbed wire running in lethal loops across the top like something from a prison movie. The front gate is electrocuted, and beside on the wall beside it is an intercom box.

Castiel pulls up so that Dean can lean out of the window and press the buzzer to announce their arrival.

“Hello?” a female voice calls from the inside of the building.

“It’s us, Charlie,” Dean says.

“Okay, um. You sound like you, but.  Just in case, tell me something only you and I would know,” she replies.

Dean signs and rubs a hand through his dirty, blood-speckled hair before he says, “Rhonda Hurley. Just…Rhonda Hurley.”

“Okay, okay,” Charlie says, “Here we go.”

The gates open and Castiel pulls through. He circles around to the back of the building, where several average and practical cars and trucks sit parked as though today is nothing but a normal workday, only the sun now rests below the horizon and no one in their right mind stays at a nine to five job this late in the evening.

Dean opens the trunk of the Impala, retrieving a duffel bag that he slings across this chest and the gas can from Castiel’s garage. His mom would be home by now. He wonders if she’s okay, or if she got infected or killed. Naomi is a fierce woman, strict and menacing. If anybody could make it out alive, it’s his mom.

In all honestly, Castiel shouldn’t be alive, but he has the Winchesters to back him up and that has meant everything today. He imagines himself as a mindless flesh-eater and feels sick to his stomach, glancing down at the tarmac as he treads a few steps behind Sam and Dean.

Upon finding them locked, they knock on the doors of the facility. A muffled _hang on_ sounds from the other side, and after several minutes of scraping and other noises, the entrance opens to a redhead and a young Asian man in his twenties, both in bloodied lab coats and business casual.

The redhead – Charlie, Castiel assumes – bounds forward and loops her arms around Dean’s neck. A beat later, Dean coils his arms around her waist and drops his head on her shoulder. The touch is brief, but unmistakable.

When she pulls away, Charlie breathes, “I’m so relieved you’re alive.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, and scratches the back of his neck. Together, they all rebuild the barricade of furniture and lab equipment that had been pushed up against the door. By the end of the labor Castiel’s muscles ache while his stomach growls and his head pounds.

Dean notices the growl. His brows lift and he says, “Hungry?”

Castiel nods.

“There are some vending machines down the hall,” Charlie says, “And some things in the kitchen, but...it’s kind of icky in there. You know. Bodies. Heads. Stray limbs. Just the usual.” She waves her arms in a helpless motion. It’s clear that she is just as tired as they are, if not more. How they survived an attack, Castiel would love to know.

They opt for the vending machines, the glass front of which Dean smashes in with the butt of his gun. He lets Sam and Castiel choose their food first – Castiel opts for a bag of Pop Chips and a package of Skittles. It’s not much, but as soon as he digs in he swears that nothing has ever tasted better, and besides, his blood sugar needed the boost.

“How are you two so fucking clean?” Dean asks between chewing Fritos.

“There’re showers on the second floor,” Charlie says, “You’re more than welcome to them. We would have changed clothes, but – this is all Kevin and I had.”

“This is all we have,” Cas says. His clothes are so saturated with blood that they’re stiff and itchy with it now, chaffing his skin.

“Nah, we got spares, dude,” Dean says, and clarifies, “In my duffel.”

“You had time to pack clothes?” Castiel says.

“No,” Sam answers, “We keep spares in the Impala.”

Who keeps spare sets of clothing in the trunk of their car?

Castiel decides not to question it.

When their meager meal comes to an end, Kevin and Charlie lead the way to the promised showers. The men’s room showers consist of locker-room like structures of half-wall, tiled partitions and no privacy to speak of. On any other day he would be embarrassed to strip down in front of Dean Winchester, but modesty is a luxury, and luxury they do not have. Despite their bloodied state, Castiel still folds his clothes and sets them in a neat pile between two sinks. He’s too tired to make the effort to cover up when he walks back to the showers.

Dean and Sam are already under the water in the two shower sections to the left. Dean’s eyes are closed and water stained pink slides down the curve of his spine and over his ass.

It is a _very_ nice ass. Round. Pert. Castiel can imagine sinking down on his knees, parting Dean’s cheeks and licking him open –

“You gonna just stand there, Cas?” Sam says.

He’s giving Castiel the dirtiest look imaginable.

To be fair, Castiel was just looking at Dean like he wanted to eat him for breakfast. Which he actually kind of does want to do, come to think of it.

“I apologize,” he finally mutters, “It’s been a long day.”

“Whew, you can say that again,” Dean chuckles.

“It’s been a long day?” Castiel says, though it’s more of a question. Dean just laughs, and so he doesn’t bother saying anything else before he steps into the empty shower stall on Dean’s other side, turning the water to the appropriate temperature before he ducks under the stream. The hot water feels fantastic on his sore limbs, working out tension he didn’t know was there in places that he didn’t know he had. The caked-on patches of blood wash away, and reveal a gash in his upper arm. He didn’t even know he had it – he must have been so caught up in getting to safety that it didn’t matter to him that he was hurt.

A low whistle sounds from his side and he catches Dean looking at him.

“Big ol’ cut,” he says, lightly, “bet we can find some crap to stitch you up with, though.”

True to his word, when they finish scrubbing the blood and dirt from their skin and hair, dry off best they can with paper towels from the bathroom dispenser and redress in clothing from Dean’s duffel, they poke around the lab and find that the fourth floor houses a medical facility.

“Hope dental floss is okay,” Dean says.

“Don’t they have actual thread for stitches?” Castiel asks. He perches on the edge of a paper-covered exam table. This room is for children – the exam table is in the shape of a school bus, and the walls have a mural of a red schoolhouse with smiling cartoon children holding hands.

It was the only exam room without a body inside it.

Sam left Dean and Castiel alone when Charlie and Kevin said that they intended to brave the kitchen with surgical masks fitted over their noses and mouths. Cas doesn’t blame Sam – he’s still hungry, and he isn’t as tall or athletic as Sam is in the slightest.

From the inside pocket of Dean’s blood-free jacket, he extracts a flask and warns, “This’ll sting. You need something to bite?”

Castiel shakes his head.

“All right, if you say so.”

The aroma of cheap whiskey overpowers him as Dean uncaps the flask and pours it over the slash across Castiel’s arm. It burns like hell and he makes a noise of complaint deep in his throat, clutching the exam table paper in both hands.

“Yeah, sorry,” Dean says, and then offers the flask, “Drink?”

Castiel takes that offer without even pausing to think, and pours a decent helping of whiskey down into his belly. It settles in his chest, warm and stinging in his throat. He takes one more swallow before he returns the flask to Dean, who finishes what’s left inside the container.

“Is it wise to drink when you’re about to sew me up?” Castiel asks, matter-of-fact.

“Eh, chill out,” Dean says, “Sewn me n’ Sam up plenty of times.”

Castiel opens his mouth to ask about this, and then ask about the spare clothes, or the arsenal of weapons, or the skills that Dean and Sam have in gun-handling. Instead of asking, he closes his mouth and voices none of what he’s thinking.

“So,” Dean says, “You really a virgin?”

Cas jumps when the needle takes its first bite into his skin, and realizes that Dean is trying to keep him occupied. He says, “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” Castiel says, “Why would I lie about that?”

“Don’t get your panties in a knot. It’s just surprising, is all,” Dean says.

“How is that surprising?” asks Cas. They’re only three stitches in and he’s in agony. His voice comes out weak and pained. He would not be surprised if he blacked out on this stupid, school bus-shaped exam table.

Dean threads the floss through Cas’ skin, jaw set and determined, a hitch between his brows, “Dunno, you’re kinda like that artsy-fartsy type. Chicks are so into that.”

“That would fantastic if I were attracted to women,” Castiel responds. He groans a little when Dean threads another stitch into the rip in his skin.

But then Dean pauses, and looks up from his work to meet Castiel’s eyes. He tilts his head, assessing, and then says, “No shit, huh?”

“Why would I joke about being homosexual,” Castiel asks dryly.

“Dunno. I’m learning all kinds a’ shit today,” Dean remarks, “Almost done, just hang on. You can do it, Cas.”

“Hurts,” is all he says.

“I bet.”

Castiel does not end up passing out on the stupid, school bus-shaped exam table. Instead he endures the last minutes of the operation in pained, awkward silence, and realizes how easy it would be for them to die, now. They don’t know how many survivors are out there, or where they are. For all they know, they could be the last people on the surface of the earth.

“All finished,” Dean says, and when he looks up, there’s a grin plastered across his face.

An exhale that he didn’t know he’d been holding in comes out, and Dean pats him on the knee. Such a simple gesture shouldn’t make him want to kiss the man, but it does, and what the hell? Castiel is exhausted, bleeding, being held together by dental floss, and hacked the heads off of at least a dozen zombies with his mother’s chainsaw.

So he kisses Dean Winchester, because he doesn’t have anything to lose in this fucked-up situation. Dean stills under the touch of Cas’ chapped lips but he doesn’t pull away, which Castiel takes a clear sign to press his tongue against Dean’s lips and slide it inside his whiskey-flavored mouth. After a moment, Dean’s tongue touches back, slow and sweet.

When they part, Dean asks, “The hell?”

“You’re very aesthetically pleasing,” Castiel rushes to say.

“Uh,” Dean answers, “Thanks?”

“I mean, it’s not just that you’re good-looking. You also read Vonnegut and work harder than almost anyone and you value family and I find your tattoos fascinating, but, yes. You’re welcome. I guess,” shrugs Castiel, “And all this bullshit has led me to the epiphany that I’ve been harboring a crush on you for months. It occurs to me that we could die at any moment, so I decided to kiss you.”

Dean nods to all of this, seeming stricken. When Castiel stops speaking, Dean takes his face in both hands and presses another kiss to his lips. It turns heated in an instant, sloppy and biting and tasting of alcohol. One of Dean’s hands slides up to settle in Castiel’s dark, still shower-damp hair, while the other lowers to his ass and hitches their bodies together at the edge of the exam table. Dean drags his hips against Castiel’s and both of them make soft noises of pleasure under their breath.

The kiss breaks, and Dean says, “Yeah, we can’t let you die a virgin.”

Before Castiel can even get a word in edgewise, Dean orders, “Stay here,” and disappears out of the room.

He returns with a bottle in his hand and a grin plastered on his face. He tosses the container up and catches it mid-air, announcing, “Medical grade lube, Cas. If you’re up for this, that is.”

“Are you kidding?” Castiel asks, and reaches for the zipper of the jeans that he’s borrowing from the Winchesters – Dean’s, if he had to guess.

“Whoa, whoa,” Dean says, “That’s my job. Get your filthy hands off your crotch.”

Castiel, for whatever reason, obeys this command, and returns his hands to the paper on the exam table. Dean swaggers forward and sets the bottle of lubricant aside before he runs a hand down Castiel’s good arm and holds his bare waist with the other, his palm warm and work-worn. He leans in and kisses Cas again, a slow, thorough kiss before he moves to Cas’ jaw and the column of his throat, where he sinks his teeth and sucks a bruise out of the skin.

A moan rips from Castiel’s lips and his hips buck up for friction, which he doesn’t get. He reaches for the fly of Dean’s jeans but has his hand knocked away with a sultry chuckle.

“Eager,” Dean murmurs.

“Desperate,” Castiel corrects.

“Shh,” Dean says, and pecks a kiss to his lips before sliding back to undo his belt. He slides his feet from his work boots and his jeans make a clinking sound against the linoleum floor when the buckle falls against it. His boxers are dark blue and green plaid, and at the front an obvious tent. A thrill rushes through Castiel at the thought that he did that, that he could make Dean feel aroused. He’s never been able to do that before.

Expert hands pull down the zipper of Cas’ jeans tooth by tooth, and he slowly draws the pants away from his body. Castiel’s boxers are borrowed too, these probably Sam’s, as Dean is thicker around the middle. Through the soft cotton, Dean rubs the heel of his hand against Castiel’s erection.

They both groan.

“All right,” Dean mumbles. He hooks his thumbs underneath the elastic waistband of his underwear and discards them, casting them across the exam room. His breath is coming heavy, and he says, “So, you want me to prep myself or you wanna do it?”

“What?” Castiel says, surprised. He cocks his head and says, “You want me to top?”

“Oh yeah,” Dean answers, “I mean, aside from the fact that I really, _really_ wanna be fucked right now,” – the word ‘fucked’ goes straight to Cas’ cock and he whimpers – “there’s no way you’re gettin’ it up the butt for the first time during the goddamn zombie apocalypse. So, me or you?”

“Me,” Castiel says quickly.

“You know how to take care of a guy, or you need me to help?” Dean asks.

“I watch porn, Dean, I’m not stupid,” Castiel snaps, and takes up the bottle of lube. He slides off of the exam table and directs, “Up. On your stomach.”

Dean nods, looking wrecked at the words, and listens. This ass, the one that he was staring at in the men’s room and fantasizing about it, is right in front of him. He can do whatever he wants to it. Dean is right here and he’s all his. All Castiel’s.

So he puts the lube aside for now, and instead rests his long-fingered hands against the globes of Dean’s ass. He presses a kiss to the small of Dean’s back and gets a soft hitch of breath in return. His tongue runs down, down, down, until he noses right against Dean’s ass, right near that pretty puckered hole.

This is better than any pornography he’s ever watched in his entire life.

“Thought about doing this,” he murmurs, “when you were showering,” and he licks a long, wet stripe across Dean’s hole before blowing cool breath across it.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Dean says. He arches back against the warm slick of Castiel’s tongue, and makes the most wonderful noise when Cas at last breaches that ring of muscle and licks at him. Dean cants back and the paper beneath him crinkles in complaint. Neither of them notice, focused solely on the lap and stretch of Cas’ tongue.

“Are you – are you sure you’re a virgin?” Dean breathlessly jokes.

Castiel draws back and murmurs, “I think I’d know if I wasn’t, don’t you?”

He picks up the bottle of lube. Castiel isn’t going into this entirely blind. He’s fingered himself once or twice or a dozen times, and realizes only now that he thought of Dean on more than one occasion than he did.

Fingers coated, Castiel strokes over Dean, smiling at how heavy and flushed his cock looks between his shaking legs, balls drawn tight, how much he wants this. He leans over Dean and hums, “You really do want to get fucked, don’t you?”

“You’re goddamn right I do,” Dean pants, “So get a move on, will you, baby?”

Baby. Castiel pretends that name doesn’t make his heart palpitate and pushes the tip of his first finger inside of Dean. Dean pushes back, taking it in further, down to the knuckle. He’s hot and tight inside, and holy hell, Castiel cannot wait to fuck him. He slides his finger inside all the way, pressing and probing, until he finds that spot inside Dean that makes him buck hard back against Castiel’s hand and swear up a storm.

“Gimme another,” Dean says.

A little more lube, and Castiel patiently thrusts two fingers into him. He massages inside him and works him open, scissoring and peppering kisses all over that perfect ass.

Three fingers, and Dean is gone. He rides up against Cas’ hand and moans his name over and over like a broken record until abruptly and without warning one of his hands lifts from the exam table underneath him and shoots out to wrap around Cas’ wrist. He moves and says, “Kay. I’m ready. You. Sit.”

Castiel does as he’s told. Dean shucks the plaid boxers off of his slim hips and throws them somewhere, he doesn’t know where. He squeezes lube into his hand and rushes to slick Cas up and down, giving his erection a squeeze and milking another string of sounds out of Cas before he climbs up and straddles him. Dean uses one hand to steady Cas’ erection and the other to keep his balance, and with a push, sinks down.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Castiel manages.

“Fuck is right, baby,” Dean groans. He situates himself, getting comfortable where he’s stretched around Cas’ dick. He mutters, “You’re fuckin’ big you fucking fuck.”

“Sorry,” gasps Castiel.

“Don’t be,” Dean tells him. A lascivious grin curls the edges of his mouth. He places his palms against Castiel’s bare chest and pushes him back so he lies down against the cool faux leather and paper covering the top of the table. He adds, “Love a big dick. Feels – _ah_ – nice.”

Too slowly, too aware of what he’s doing, Dean presses a hand against Castiel’s chest and draws his body up just a little before sinking back down. He starts slowly, moving his hips in a trance-like rhythm, sweat gleaming on his skin under the bright light of the exam room. But when Castiel thrusts up to meet him, Dean throws his head back and moans.

“Damn, baby,” he says, “Gonna ride the hell out of you.”

And Dean does. Oh, he does. His hips snap down to take Cas all the way in and he draws back up only to do it again, fucking himself on Cas’ cock while he holds him down. He spreads his muscled legs wider to take it deeper, changes his angle to Castiel’s erection hits that place inside him, and when he finds it he looks broken, so happy he’s cracked and ready to spill his insides.

The tattoos on Dean’s arms quiver as his body fucks back, hard and quick and dirty, the thick black lines and bright splashes of color twisting and dancing before Cas’ eyes.

He isn’t going to last long.

“Dean,” he gasps, and claws at the skin on his back, scratching and desperate, “Dean, Dean, I’m gonna -”

Dean holds a finger to Cas’ lips and says, “Shh. Come for me, baby.”

That’s all it takes for Cas to shout, “Fuck, Dean!” and shoot his load inside him, coming harder than he ever had to his own hands. He’s in a haze, so wrecked and fucked-out that all he can do is watch as his cock softens inside Dean and Dean takes his own erection in hand, moving it over himself expertly. He looks gorgeous like this, over six feet of tattooed muscle and golden-light freckled skin, paler than Castiel’s but not by much.

Dean curses under his breath and comes in hot ropes onto Cas’ abdomen. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his entire life, made even better when Dean slumps over and presses their overheated bodies together, slick and sticky as he leans in to kiss Castiel. The kiss is lazy and perfect, tongues stroking and soft, sated noses punctuating breaths.

“Here,” Dean says, and with strong arms he shifts so that he lies on his back below Castiel. He explains, “You weigh less than me.”

“Hmm,” Castiel expresses, and leans his head against Dean’s shoulder. It takes a long few minutes for him to come down from the orgasm. When he finally settles back into himself, he’s tracing the tattoo over Dean’s heart, something pagan-looking. He noses against Dean’s stubbled cheek and ventures, “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you going to tell me why you and Sam are so skilled with weapons, or why you keep clothes in the Impala, or why you said you’ve stitched you and Sam up enough to know how to do it?” he asks.

Dean murmurs, “Smart fucker,” and then gives Castiel a long, long look, “We’re hunters. Charlie too.”

“You told me that and I don’t believe you,” Castiel replies.

“Not like deer and pheasants, shortstack, like creatures. Monsters. Zombies are just the tip of the fugly iceberg, though whatever the fuck this is, it’s honestly kinda out of hand. I’m thinking Abaddon.”

“The Knight of Hell?” Castiel says, dumbfounded.

“You know another Abaddon?” Dean quirks a brow.

Castiel shakes his head, and then settles his cheek against Dean’s shoulder, where he can apply languid little kisses to the side of his neck.

“You’re not gonna call me crazy?” Dean’s sex-wrecked voice makes his chest rumble underneath Cas.

“No,” Cas responds, “I was almost zombie chow today, so if you’re crazy, then I must be too.”

At this, a soft smile forms on Dean’s handsome face, and he wraps a strong arm around Cas’ waist. He presses a kiss to Cas’ temple. It’s affectionate, and sweet, and neither of them says anything about it. Sweet kisses to foreheads are not something they need to discuss at a time like this.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Yup,” Dean says.

“Who’s Rhonda Hurley?”

Dean laughs.

**X**

Sam is working his way through a Glad container of chicken salad with the name “Ed” and “DO NOT EAT!!!” with three exclamation points on the lid when Charlie reappears, looking a little spooked. He offers her the container and she shakes her head.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Well,” she says, “I don’t mean to alarm you, but I just witnessed your brother riding your best friend into the sunset.”

Sam spits chicken salad back into the box and says, “Jesus, Charlie. I didn’t need to know that.”

“Well, I didn’t need to see it,” she says.

Sam mutters into the food, “Dumb fuckers are lucky we don’t live in a horror movie.”

“Oh yeah. So dead,” Charlie agrees.

“Definitely dead.”

**X**

They  sleep all together on the second floor of Protronic Laboratories, huddled up with contraband vending machine food and fire blankets. Dean touches Castiel more than he ever has before, just little things – brushes of his hand on Cas’ lower back and fingers through his hair. When they fall asleep, they fall asleep side by side.

They wake up closer than side by side. Dean has his nose pressed to the back of Castiel’s neck and his arms tangled around him. Sam is giving them a look from a couple of feet away.

“Sorry,” Castiel says.

“Dude, it’s about freaking time,” Sam says.

“What?”

“He’s always like, asking about you, and stuff,” Sam says, “Anyway, I think he was into you way before that was legal and I _knew_ you had a thing for him, ‘cause, come on. You stare. Like, a lot.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Dean’s sleepy voice mumbles to him, “Like it when you stare.”

“Oh my God,” Sam complains, “I’m not a part of this.”

Breakfast consists of candy bars, those 100-calorie snack pack things, and watery coffee from the corpse-littered kitchen. It’s not a lot but it’s enough fuel to keep them going while they try for news on what the hell is going on and try for cell phone service, which has been nil since late the previous night. The laboratory’s computers function but there’s no connection to the internet, and when they turn the small, box-like television in the kitchen on, nothing appears but static fizz.

Dean slams his fist down on the TV and succeeds only in injuring himself.

Sam, meanwhile, thinks that the best bet is the radio, and makes Dean take them out to the Impala and run her long enough to tune through the stations. Most of them turn up nothing but static, but as Sam wrist twitches as he turns the dial they hear a blip of noise.

“Turn it back, turn it back,” Kevin says.

Sam makes the adjustment and a smooth voice rolls out over through the speakers.

“ _…the virus. Survivors are encouraged to travel to safe houses in the following locations: White Plains, New York. Enigma, Georgia. Buena Vista, Colorado. Loveland, Ohio. Lincoln City, Oregon – and Santa Barbara, California. We will announce more locations as they come to the station. In the meantime stay inside, lock and barricade doors and windows, and stay armed._ ”

The broadcast moves into a roll of piano music and an announcement to standby, as well as a gentle male voice repeating, _“A virus warning is now in effect. Please remain indoors. A virus warning is now in effect_.”

“Guess we’re closest to Buena Vista,” Castiel says.

“It’s about half a day’s drive out from here,” Dean says, “We’d need to get our shit together, get all the food together that we can. I can siphon gas from some a’ these fuckers and make sure we got enough for the trip. I don’t want to stop, not for nothing. Okay?”

They spend over an hour getting their things together. Castiel tries to pack his bloodstained clothing but Dean stops him. He feels reluctant to leave them, and maybe it’s because he’s leaving behind a sense of normalcy, and of knowing his own mind. Now he lives in a world of deadly viruses and aloneness and family built not of blood but of necessity. Dean sees the look on Cas’ face as he thinks through all this and tries to process everything that’s happened. He cups Castiel’s face and strokes his thumb over the soft scruff of stubble over his jaw, and then leans in and kisses him.

“Whatever happens, we got each other,” Dean says.

Castiel nods and just because, he kisses Dean again before he says, “I’m glad of that.”


End file.
